


He Never Smiles

by Thruterryseyes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 04:52:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10892094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thruterryseyes/pseuds/Thruterryseyes
Summary: Short retrospective of Dean Winchester.





	He Never Smiles

He never smiled with his eyes. His face, almost too beautiful for a man, made the correct muscular motions but the amusement never touched his wide green eyes. Always, they remained cool and impassive, alert and incredibly watchful but his soul would never be seen through them. Whatever went on behind those eyes stayed behind them. He had spent his entire life perfecting that distant look and he was good at it.

He was good at many things. An accomplished thief, he could steal a car, break into a building or pick a pocket with equal facility. Had done all of them on numerous occasions and would no doubt do them all again. He specialized in credit card fraud. Lying with his fake ID's about who he was without thought, so much so that at times he had difficulty remembering who he was actually supposed to be. He had been taught how to fight, how to kill. He could field strip, blindfolded, a dozen different types of guns. He had fired his first weapon as age 6 and made his first kill 2 years later. He slept with a hunting knife under his pillow, fingers curled around the bone handle, as comforting as a night light. He had become in his short life, under his father's careful instruction, the perfect weapon, the perfect killer, the perfect soldier… the perfect son.

He knew how to use his looks, his charm, to get what he wanted. He used them like a tool to manipulate people and situations. He knew right from wrong, but he also understood doing wrong for the right reasons. He had a conscience, he still had morals and he also had memories that could and did bring him gasping out of nightmares that left him sick and shaking.

He knew how to survive. Survival meant ignoring the pain and blood and getting the damned job done. It meant sleeping in the freezing car when there was no money for a room. It meant buying clothes at thrift stores when the ones you had were so ragged and bloodstained you couldn't wash them anymore. It meant never staying in one place for long and then having to get out in a hurry. It usually meant grabbing anything you could find to eat as you drove to the next job and if it was a choice between food or ammunition, then you went hungry. It meant hustling pool in bars and playing poker in smoky back rooms, hoping to God, you could pocket your winnings and get away before anyone caught on. It meant searching for some kind of release. A way to let go, even if the only place you could find it was in the arms of yet another stranger.

He knew pain. His body bore the scars of countless battles, those won and those lost. The scars that hurt the most, though, didn't show on his skin.

He had known love. His mother's love, ripped from him at an early age. His father's love, changed and hardened but was love none the less. His brother's love, which he had thought was unending, but he had been wrong.

He knew what fear was, intimately, could control it, but inside, he knew his most intimate fear controlled him.

He was alone.

End


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